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Cookies & Communists

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At swimming yesterday, my swimming buddy asked me if I had seen the article below (in full) about the Girl Scouts. After reading it on  www.theindychannel.com, I can’t ignore it and can’t stop thinking about it.

Seriously? The Girl Scouts are working for Planned Parenthood, feminists, communists and the LGBT community?

Well, wait one doggone minute…

Hmmm….You know, it’s all coming together for me now. I have to admit that I was surprised when I got a free pack of birth control pills and a coupon for 50% off an abortion with our cookie delivery last week. I called my friend to inquire. She apologized for not leaving us with the flier which explained the following promotions:

**With every purchase of 5 boxes of Thin Mints, you get one month’s supply of birth control pills.

**With every purchase of 2 boxes of Samoas, you get a coupon for half off an abortion at the Planned Parenthood clinic of your choice. (I asked my friend why only 2 boxes of Samoas? She said that they have warehouses full of them because of the coconut (not a lot of fans out there). They needed a promotion to move them off the shelves. Since there are a lot of communistic feminists willing to overlook coconut and desiring abortions, the ad campaign is apparently considered a success.)

**With every purchase of 1 box of Trefoils, you get one free class on lesbianism entitled, “How to Liberate the Hidden Lesbian in You”.

I’m a little bummed that I didn’t buy a box of Trefoils. That free class sounds interesting.

Seriously, folks. Where did Fort Wayne get this guy? Was he really voted into office? People in Fort Wayne actually selected him over the other candidate? (Who was the other candidate?)

Wow.  I just realized that we are going to hell in handbasket and you know why? It’s not because we let a transgender girl become a Girl Scout, it’s because we elect closed-minded morons like this guy and let him have any say in our government.

Indiana, we had our Super Bowl Moment, but, sadly, it’s over. We will now be known as the hotbed for the lunatic fringe. No wonder the Artiste (see prior post) is bitter that his bitchy wife made him move here.

And, for the record, Mr. Morris’ “Conservative Hoosier Upbringing and Values” are not my values. It seems that all he values is bigotry, discrimination, hate and divisiveness. Yep, that’s the stuff that will move our country forward.

No. Thank. You. 

Lawmaker Condemns ‘Radicalized’ Girl Scouts / www.theindychannel.com

Rep. Bob Morris: Organization Supports Abortion, Homosexuality

POSTED: 3:17 pm EST February 20, 2012
UPDATED: 8:22 pm EST February 20, 2012

INDIANAPOLIS — An Indiana lawmaker won’t support a resolution celebrating the 100th anniversary of the Girl Scouts because he believes it is a “radicalized organization” that supports abortion and promotes homosexuality.

Rep. Bob Morris of Fort Wayne has sent a letter to fellow Indiana House Republicans explaining why he opposes the nonbinding resolution.

He said he found online allegations that the Girl Scouts are a tactical arm of Planned Parenthood, encourage sex and allow transgender females to join.

 

“Many parents are abandoning the Girl Scouts because they promote homosexual lifestyles,” Morris’ letter reads. “In fact, the Girl Scouts education seminar girls are directed to study the example of role models. Of the 50 role models listed, only three have a briefly-mentioned religious background — all the rest are feminists, lesbians, or Communists.”

He also wrote that the fact that first lady Michelle Obama is honorary president should give lawmakers pause before they endorse the Girl Scouts because the Obamas are “are radically pro-abortion and vigorously support the agenda of Planned Parenthood.”

I challenge each of you to examine these matters more closely before you extend your name and your reputation to endorse a group that has been subverted in the name of liberal progressive politics and the destruction of traditional American family values,” Morris wrote.

Last fall, the Girl Scouts of Colorado accepted seven-year-old transgender child Bobby Montoya as a member, prompting some troops across the country to disband in protest.

Ashley Sharp, spokeswoman for the Girl Scouts of Northern Indiana-Michiana, said Monday in a statement on the group’s website that it leaves sex and reproduction questions to parents. The group accepts transgender youth on a case-by-case basis.

In his letter, Morris said his two daughters had been active in Girl Scouts, but said they would now join a group to “learn about values and principles that will not confuse their conservative Hoosier upbringing.”

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Those Five Little Words

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Do you know what can make me go from absolutely fine to insanely crazed faster than you can blink?

“You just need to relax.”

It doesn’t matter who says it either – my husband, my dad, my friends, my kids, etc. If you’re in the mood for a fight, then just go ahead…….

Who said it this time? Let me backtrack a bit.

My sweet husband bought me a coupon from Living Social for a 3-hour art class. You see, I had a painting that’s been half done for about a year and it’s been haunting me (and others, apparently). Since I’m not a trained artist (I’ve created a total of 2.5 paintings in my entire life), I got stuck and couldn’t move forward. Simple as that.

I finally decided to go to this instructor to see if I could be helped (wait, I know I can’t be helped, but maybe my painting can). How did it go? Just let me say that I’d rather have hot pokers stuck in my eyes than go back to that class.

Let me give you some samples:

“Um, are you happy with your sky?” {He was subliminally trying to get me to say, “No, I’m not.”}

Yes, I LOVE my sky.

“You know, I offer classes on just mixing paints and brush techniques.”

Really? Well you can kiss my ass. It’s not rocket science and I think my mixing is just fine.

“Don’t be so rough with the brush. You want long smooth strokes.”

Again, kiss my ass.

“You just need to relax. Painting should be fun.”

Aaaarrrghhhhhh! Did you just say, “Relax?”  You want me to RELAX? Then quit sitting across from me staring at me haphazardly mixing my paints and roughly smacking the canvas with my paint brush!!!!

{Shit, has it really only been 45 minutes?}

“I absolutely don’t let anyone paint flowers for their first painting.”

Huh? I didn’t realize this was a dictatorship.

“You need to add more black.”

Got it.

“You need to add more black.”

I heard you the first time.

Do you really like oils?

Yes, I like how you can smoosh (It’s a painting term. Look it up.) the colors together. {Clearly oils are wrong and acrylics are right.}

Meanwhile, in between his blurts stated above, he shows us another one of his paintings (ooh, aah), visits the three other painters-in-training and murmurs helpful hints. Then, one of these murmurs catches my attention.

Artiste: “Would you like a glass of wine? There’s only enough for one glass.”

Huh? What about the one that needs to relax?

Mrs. Flirty (sitting behind me): “Sure.”

Then, I hear, “How did you end up in the Midwest?”

It’s a legitimate question. I mean how could a bunch of unrefined, dumb hicks ever appreciate his sheer acrylic brilliance? They don’t even offer Art Appreciation class in Indiana anymore because we all flunked it. There is an ugly rumor circulating that all the cool stuff hits the coasts first and then eventually trickles inward to us poor Midwesterners. I personally don’t think that’s true. I just heard a new band on the radio – Hootie & the Blowfish. Ever heard of them? They. Are. Awesome!

It continued:

Mrs. Flirty:  “You should be in New York or an artist colony somewhere.”

Artiste:  “Blame it on the wife (wives can be such bitches!). She wanted to live in the Midwest so we moved here.

Wow. Wow. Wow. When is this class going to end?

When I finally got home, I was so wound up that Mike was confused (because I was supposed to be relaxing) and then eventually amused by my irritation.

The only true bright spot during the entire ordeal occurred at the end of class. The sweet 14-year-old student sitting next to me looked at my painting and said, “Wow, your painting is way cooler than the actual picture.” Take that, Artiste!

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Who Wants to Get Married by Elvis?

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Maddie: “Mommy, you know how you always say that you want us to elope and then come home for a party (reception)?”

Me (uh oh): “Uh, yeah.”

Maddie: “Well, somehow the topic of  weddings came up and I told Mrs. Friend’s Mom about what you said. She was really shocked and really kind of surprised that you would say anything like that. She just couldn’t believe it.”

[Oh, greeeaaaat. Mrs. Friend’s Mom, who is really a very nice person, now thinks I’m crazy, cruel and/or un-American. Sometimes I can relate to Christine in the New Adventures of Old Christine especially when she is trying to fit in with the moms in her kid’s school.]

Me: “Really? Hmmm… “You know I’m kidding when I say things like that, right?”

Maddie: “It doesn’t sound like you’re kidding.”

Am I kidding? Well, kind of. When did my kids actually start listening to me anyway?

Sometimes I forget Maddie is very black and white, very literal (the nuances of what is being said can get lost in translation). The other two usually roll their eyes and ignore what I say when it sounds silly or unreasonable. Not that girl.

And, Maddie also stores everything I say in her little “shit my mom says” brain vault for use against me later. She never regurgitates the “good” stuff for the masses (I have spouted some valuable words of wisdom, haven’t I?).

Back to the nuptials, don’t you think the craze of these uber-expensive weddings is insane? “That’s not real life, you know that, girls. Right?” ” Daddy and I didn’t have a wedding like that and we’re still happily married.”  Blah, blah…

Girls: Yes, Mommy dear.”

One summer, my hairdresser (God, how old am I? I meant to say, “salon technician“) was in 5 or 6 weddings and well on her way to 27 dresses. I kid you not! Well, two years later, over half of these marriages are over with a capital O and a capital VER. And, some of these weddings were over-the-top even by my Technician’s standards (not just mine). All I kept thinking was, “Those poor parents. If that were my daughter, I’d kill her!”

Yeah, I know. That’s not a very compassionate attitude toward my lovies so I won’t share that with my kiddos (just you guys). I don’t think they read my blog.

My methods may be unorthodox (jokingly encouraging elopement), but I’m trying to keep my kids grounded in the real world. Raising kids in our community along with the crazy media images makes the goal of raising grounded children difficult.

Speaking of weddings, I would like to report that the hubs and I will be celebrating two milestones this February:  the 30th anniversary of our first date and our 21st wedding anniversary! (Yeah, I know, 9 years of dating. It was a process, but I finally talked him into it). 🙂

Happy Anniversary, Baby!

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Infested

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thud-scurry-scurry-pitter-patter

What was that noise?

scurry-shuffle-scurry-shuffle-thud

Was that the dog? Looking at him (see pic), I determine that it’s not the dog.

Is it my keyboard? After abruptly silencing the keyboard, I hear the noise. It’s not the keyboard.

Oh. My. God. You may be seeing us on a future episode of Infested! on Animal Planet.

It sounds like a huge critter – chipmunk? squirrel? possum? raccoon? Believe it or not, we’ve had run-ins with all afore-mentioned critters with the exception of the squirrel (yes, we have squirrels, but none have been so bold as to enter our house).

Possums:

In our previous house, we had a h-u-g-e one (it was the size of a beagle) die under our deck a week before we put the house on the market. Didn’t we notice that our nightly visitor hadn’t been seen in a couple of days? Sure, but we didn’t realize that he had met his maker under our deck until the stench of rotting flesh permeated our house. Needless to say, the hubs and his dad had to tear up the deck to remove the dead possum. We did get the house fumigated, the deck repaired and the house sold within a week of the possum’s demise.

In our new house, we had baby possums dropping from our ceiling in the basement. That was fun. Our first home improvement project? Replacing the drop tile ceiling with a drywall one.

Raccoons:  In our very first house, we had a detached garage and there was a very large raccoon living up in the rafters. Eeeeek! It didn’t stay long, thank goodness.

Chipmunks:  Check out the story here.  It’s worth the read – it’s one of our family favorites.

Okay, so back to the present. What did I do this morning? I did what every normal woman does in these situations – I bugged my husband at work with a problem that he couldn’t possibly do anything about and then got frustrated when he didn’t get on the crazy train with me. I needed a panic partner, not a calm fix-it guy.

[Duh! I knew that I should be calling a professional critter guy instead of you. Don’t you know me by now?]

Why do I do that? I do it so I’m not panicking alone, but then it always backfires on me. Because, of course, the hubs trying to be calm, sensible, and matter-of-fact added fuel to fire by saying, “Well, it probably means ripping out drywall and the ceiling.” 

Great. I’m now on the crazy train alone and shivering with visions of possums living and laughing in the space between our first and second floors.

I only wanted some validation that my gut was right in thinking that I should call our bug guy (yeah, we have a bug guy) for a critter guy recommendation.

Always go with your gut. Call the bug guy first.

By the way, I got a recommendation from the bug guy for a critter guy.  I called and got his voicemail – he sounds like what you think a critter guy would sound like (think “good ole boy” that’s seen a lot in his day). I hope he calls me back………..

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Pour the Whine!

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***Cough, cough*** Whining Alert –  I’ve been sick with something or other since mid-November and I’m really sick and tired of it. I’m now recovering from my third round of illness which turned out to be bronchitis/sinusitis. My morning wake-up cough sounds like an old man who’s smoked for 50 years – gross! A 46-year-old woman shouldn’t sound like that.

I’m on my third round of antibiotics – wish me luck.

Anyhoo, the mokus is why I haven’t posted anything since mid-December. I’m barely getting through the day doing the stuff I have to do (shower, work, laundry, grocery shop, cook, drive kids around, etc.). I’ve been going to bed at 8:30 – 9:00 pm every night with codeine cough syrup as a nightcap. Not very exciting.

Since I’ve been woefully neglectful of my writing duties, I thought I would alert you to a new blog. A friend of my started one about the joy of home ownership and the art of rennovation. You should check it out – Beez Houz.

(BTW, she also has another blog – Writerly.)

Happy Reading!

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Too Old to Sumo Wrestle

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“Babe, let’s do it. Let’s wrestle each other.”

Shake of the head (no).

“Come on, p-l-e-a-s-e?”

“No.”

A silent “fine” from moi.

The picture to the left is of my daughters getting ready to rumble (this family party occurred sometime over the summer). Isn’t that a great picture? Don’t they look like they are ready to have some F-U-N?

This seemed to be a pivotal moment for me. I thought, “What just happened? Are we really too old to have goofy fun?  Really?”

Is this going to be the rest of my life? No more goofy fun? Just boring middle-age whatever?

The incident made me sad. I don’t want to be too old or too stuffy or too proper to sumo wrestle. But, it was only one teeny tiny episode, right?

Wrong.

I recently attended a Chris Isaak concert (Chris Isaak Wicked Game YouTube video). HE. WAS. AWESOME. 

Once Chris started crooning, I wanted to do what most fun people do at concerts – stand up and dance all night! But, NOOOOOO.

There was no dancing – just like Footloose. I wanted to boogie, but due to peer pressure (we were on the floor in the middle of the middle), I had to settle for chair dancing (and not the sexy kind as in let’s say, Flashdance – Sexy Chair Dance). My version of chair dancing probably looked more like squirming as if  I were discreetly trying to fix a wedgie.

Poor Chris. He’ll probably never come back to my stuffy, proper city that doesn’t groove to the beat (dead inside, the entire lot of ’em). Why would he? How fun could it possibly be to play for a crowd that acted like limp, wet rags? About as fun as getting poked in the eye with a hot poker I would imagine.

So, is that the way it’s going to be? No sumo wrestling? No dancing? I’m not quite ready to play dead yet.

Who’s with me?

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What to do with a 5-foot Metal Chicken

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This blog post was brought to my attention by one of my FB friends (Thank you, Kathy!). It is the one of the funniest articles that I’ve read in a long time. So funny that I found myself laughing out loud at my son’s basketball practice (and receiving strange looks from the other parents). It was worth it!

The author is Jenny Lawson and her website is www.thebloggess.com– here is a link to the post:  And that’s why you should learn to pick your battles.

Enjoy!

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Liebster Love

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I love the blogging community. I have “met” some really cool, interesting people and one of these very sweet people gave me an award!

It’s the Liebster award. Apparently, Liebster (is it German?) means “beloved” and it was given to me by the Knowledge Maven. She always writes supportive comments to my posts and has a really great blog of her own. She’s funny, serious, and thought-provoking. You’ll find yourself nodding your head in agreement when reading  her musings.

This award is presented to those blogs that have 200 or less followers to aid in gaining readership. Very nice! Despite my prior post, I would enjoy adding some new subscribers!

The rules are:

1. Show thanks to the blogger who gave you the Award by linking back to them.

2. Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment at their blog.

3. Post the Award on your blog.

4. Enjoy the love of some of the most supportive people on the Internet!

I don’t know about their subscriber counts, but here’s my list:

bridgetstraub | Author, Artist, Mom

scrollwork | quirkyisms from a tropical transplant to California

Writerly | by Beth Bates

Recovering Dawn

Totsymae.com | Living the Average Life of a Writer and Artist Trying to Get Her Hustle on. Period.

Enjoy!

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Come, Follow Me

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What’s been rolling around in my brain recently? An article I read in the New York Times. The title of the article is “Confessions of a Tweeter”. With a title like that, I couldn’t pass it up. If you tweet or blog, I recommend reading it.

I’m not a prolific tweeter as most of my followers know. I’m more of a voyeur because it’s hard to be interesting all of the time. When I first opened my Twitter account, I tried it and just couldn’t manage being quippy and funny even 5 times a day (unlike the 20-30 times a day like Mr. Carlat). I think too much and mull things over too long.

What kind of pressure would feel if you had 25,000 followers? I would feel a huge burden to be entertaining all of the time and could see how that could turn into an addiction.

As I was reading the article, I was thinking about my blog. When I first started it, I tried to blog every day or every other day. It was exhilarating when someone would visit my blog and better yet, leave a comment! “Wow, someone wants to know what I have to say!”

Validation and adulation from strangers! It’s like a drug. I was checking my site stats every day and thinking about my blog all of the time. “What should I write about today?” “Should it be funny or serious, tame or controversial?”

It had begun to consume me. It wasn’t earning me any income, making me any healthier or contributing to my family’s well-being in any way. I actually did have a life, a job, a family. . . the people in my life still needed me to do the things that made their worlds go around. This tug between my new obsession and my life was causing my blog to become a burden, another item on my To Do list.

That’s not what I wanted because I really enjoy blogging. So, now I blog when something strikes me. Sometimes two or three weeks can go by before I feel driven to write. It’s hard to admit, but I can’t be fabulous and compelling all of time!

I’ve struck a balance between my blog and the rest of my life so I’m not ready to give it up cold turkey like the author of the article. I know intermittent posting is not a WordPress recommended way of garnering subscribers, but I’m okay with that. I’m not sure I could I handle 25,000 subscribers!

Has social media hijacked your time? What did you think of the article?

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Kenny

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Who is Kenny? He’s someone I don’t know very well, but I will tell you that he makes me smile every time I see him.

You see, I am one of those rare grocery shoppers that makes a weekly meal plan, a corresponding grocery list and a weekly trek to the store (this usually occurs on a Saturday or Sunday). I want to get it done all in one trip and never go back (well, until the next weekend). I really hate grocery shopping – as much as I hate cleaning the bathrooms.

I described myself as a rare grocery shopper because I don’t usually see many others in the grocery store filling their carts to overflowing and then, watching their baggers navigate two carts across the parking lot. I feel like a rare breed. One time, a fellow shopper asked me if we were having a party and I said, “Nope. This is my normal weekly grocery trip.” She looked horrified (really, I’m not kidding). I wasn’t sure how to respond to that so I didn’t. We just waited in uncomfortable silence in the checkout line until my groceries were bagged and ready for transport.

So, you’re still saying, “Who’s Kenny? And, what does this have to do with food?” Kenny is my grocery bagger. Okay, he’s not really MY bagger, but the poor thing is usually the lucky duck that ends up bagging the seemingly endless stream of food that I buy.

I want to say that while bagging groceries isn’t rocket science, it’s still a science of sorts. Not everyone is good at it. You have to have good spatial skills. There are definitely great ones (fast, efficient use of bags, perfect food placement within the bags and smash-free bread & chips), good ones (somewhat fast and efficient, okay food placement within the bags and smash-free bread & chips) and bad ones (slow, wasteful with bags and smashes your bread & chips). When picking out my checkout lane, I’m not looking for the shortest lane, I’m looking for a good to great grocery bagger. Since I shop at this store every week, I know who’s who and what’s what.

Kenny makes the trip worthwhile. Besides being a fantastic bagger, he is always happy, always has a smile on his face and always has really nice things to say. For example, he often asks about my kids and when I tell him their ages, he always responds with, “Wow! You look too young to have kids in high school!” (Thank you, Kenny!)

Kenny is probably in his early 50s and I think has been working at my local O’Malia’s for about 25 years (give or take a few years). In making small talk out to the car, he will be the first to tell you that he was hit by a car when he was a toddler (2 or 3) and suffered a brain injury in that accident. He loves skiing with his aunt in Colorado because they have a great skiing program for the disabled. He also has a sister in Dallas whom he visits at least once a year (from what I have gathered). His sister has three or four kids and he LOVES them tremendously. He talks about them as if they were his own.

I really admire him – his outlook on life is wonderful despite the cards dealt to him and he seems to find the joy in the moment.

I strive to mimic his perspective and his ability to live in the now.

He always ends the visit with a “Thank you for shopping at O’Malias!”

I hope that Kenny’s coworkers see what I see and take away something positive after a Kenny-encounter. I know I do.